


Asleep in Their Bed

by emm802



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Minor Injuries, More of a filler than anything, Mostly Fluff, Sarcasm, caring for one another, spoilers for 8x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 18:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emm802/pseuds/emm802
Summary: I promise, we shall see the sun thousands times more.One of us always there to reassureTogether, hand in hand we will fight back the night.I’m never again letting you out of my sight.





	Asleep in Their Bed

**Author's Note:**

> These characters are not my own

She didn’t expect to make it through the night. Didn’t expect to see the sun rise, didn’t expect to witness the dead collapse around her, didn’t expect this to actually be real. 

She spent last night on that sack of grain expecting it to be the last time she would see the evening. She spent the last night expecting it would be the last time she would see him draw breath. 

She's not sure if he does still draw breath, and she’s not exactly sure how to go searching for him just yet. Her feet feel stuck to the floor, cementing her prints in the snow as the dead clutter around her, 

Her adoptive brother stares unseeing at the sky, her biological brother remains perched in his chair. The tree rustles above them as if knowing they still need some sort of protection. She feels as if the spirits from this battle and from battles long forgotten are gathering above them, whispering to her that she is safe now. That rest is soon approaching, that she has saved them all. 

_She has granted them peace._  

A dragon wails from some distance away, alerting Arya that the night is still not over, no matter if the sun is rising across the sky. There is still work to be done. There is death to be confronted once more. 

She has to know once and for all if she has been left by those she cares for most. 

She grabs Brans chair, wheeling it toward the remains of Winterfell. She pauses near Theon’s body, staring at the man she used to know. He was a hero in the end, even if that meant he had to succumb to the Night Kings spear. She releases the chair and bends to his face, pressing the eyelids shut, granting him a small mercy that comes too late. 

_I should have done more._  

_You did all you could, you killed the threat that had taken us all._

She rises to her feet once more, still not completely steady as she moves with Bran through the carnage. 

Jon reaches them first. Steps pounding toward them as they exit the Godswood. He stumbles to a stop in front of them, eyes dancing along the gash against her forehead, the blood splattered across her leathers, Bran who seems remotely unharmed. 

“Are you both alright?” He asks, voice hoarse from the battle. 

“The Night King is Dead.” Bran announces, not answering the question but not avoiding it all together. “Theon Greyjoy sacrificed himself in order to protect me, there is nothing in that Godswood but death.” 

“There’s nothing in the bloody castle besides death.” Jon answers. “But there are some living who remain.” He pauses. “If Theon did not kill the Night King, who did?” 

“Arya.” It’s simple, the way her name falls from his mouth. Nothing reverent, nothing special. Just the name that she was taught to burry that instead crawled back from the deepest parts of her soul to regain what she had lost all those years ago. 

“How did you …?” Jon doesn’t seem to have the words as he looks at her. 

“The dagger.” Her answer is short, but she raises her chin. “I did what I had to do. What any of us would have done in that moment.” 

“Aye, you did.” He gingerly steps towards her with arms outstretched. “You saved us all from an eternal night. You saved us from the Devil.” She collapses into his arms as the world around her goes blurry on the edges. 

She doesn’t have the greatest recollection of all of the next hour. She knows Sansa is there, hugging her so tightly to her that Arya feels her lungs contract. She doesn’t want to tell her about Theon, but she does anyway, promising that he died the hero he always was meant to be. Sansa doesn’t say anything. Just nods while holding back her tears. 

“We will mourn the dead together, when we all have had a chance to heal.” She declares, her voice wobbly but calm. Resilient in the face of death. 

Next, the Hound claps Arya on the shoulder. “Well little She-Wolf, for once I’m glad for your teeth.” He’s not the only one it seems, half the fucking castle is crowding around her. 

Brienne nods at her when they connect eye to eye. Almost as if expecting nothing else from the girl half her height. Brienne herself is seated against the wall, arm being wrapped in a sling while Jaimie Lannister rests besides her. The two seem about ready to collapse, but when someone suggests moving one without the other, they won’t hear of it. 

Podrick Payne is a few yards from them, a bandage wrapped around his head like she should have, she nods to him as she wanders past, noticing how he smiles slightly in response, but can barely do a thing else. 

Ser Davos informs her that Melisandre is dead, tells of her sacrifice and the way she crumbled in the wind. Fitting, for the woman who had aided them in the end. 

The Dragon Queen returns atop her dragon who appears to be alright, however the man she clutches at is not. The blood stains on her jacket fit with the crimson undertones, but the white fur matted down is a horrid sight to see. Jon steps forward as she slides down from her perch, the body of Ser Jorah Mormont in her grip. He manages to pry her from the body, grabbing at her hands with his own and drawing her up into his arms. She stays cradled there, as he disappears into the shadows of the castle, searching for a clean place to lay down his queen. 

The others from the crypt pour up the steps, shaken from their brushes with death. They tend to the wounded, force others to rest their limbs, and marvel in the sunshine of a new dawn. Grateful, like the rest of them, to be basking in it once more. 

She sees the body of Lyanna Mormont sprawled in the dirt, and her heart gives a pang for the girl she saw herself in. Strong even in death, if the giant besides her means anything. She passes faces, some known, some not. But she still can’t seem to find him. 

She stays in the center of what used to be the courtyard, scanning and scanning through dead and the living, but he is neither. She peeks her head into the forge, but the furnaces are cold and there are no corpses for her to find there, only remains of dragon glass not sculpted before the horns sounded to begin the night. 

She scours hallways and chambers, each more haunted than the last. He’s no where to be found. 

She’s lost him in the end, she killed the demon but lost her bull. 

She couldn’t save everyone, but dammit why didn’t she save him. 

She at least attempts to salvage the weapon he made her, the beautiful spear exactly as she asked. She lost it after cracking her skull against the wall, in the fray of wights, left on the battlements for no ones use as who could have known it was there but she?

She climbs the crumbling stairs, careful to not step into the holes that are left from debris and corpses alike. She reaches the open space where she had first made her stand, watching as the army of the dead began to swarm around them. 

She turns the corner, almost certain this is the stairwell that she tumbled down before being smashed into the stones. The wights here are crumbled as well, but where she was sure her spear was there is only snow. She hears a noise from farther along the walls, scraping of something against stone, she just can’t be sure what. 

She is too weak for another fight, she only has Needle strapped to her waist, the dagger being given to Bran. She quietly pads toward the noise, wary as she gets closer, hand perched on the hilt. 

It’s when she rounds the last corner she recognizes the broad shoulders and the spear in the man’s hand that she realizes who it is at all. 

_Gendry_  

He’s got her spear clutched in his right hand, dragging it across the side of the wall as he limps from one end of the battlements to another. Dulling the blade against the stones, he favors his right leg over his left, and strapped to his back is that stupid hammer of his that she knows now is a likeness to his father. 

She wants to run to him, wants to fling herself into his arms and stay there so long someone has to find them here. But she won’t, she sees his injuries and knows she is too weak to run at him, so instead she offers an opening. 

“You know, I paid good money for that. Dulling the blade will cost you.” The sound of her voice is harsh to her own ears, but it snaps him back to the present in a second. He pivots on his heel slowly, eyes wide and fearful. “I also would prefer if I got it back, but if you like I know a blacksmith who’s not half bad - he could make you one if you ask nicely.” She feels her resolve slipping as he stares at her, his blue eyes are surrounded in grime that she knows her own face is covered in. 

“I thought you were dead.” He tells her honestly, voice carrying across the space between them. 

“I thought I was too.” She takes a step toward him but has to steady herself on the wall. “I thought we all were.” 

“What happened?” 

“I stuck him with the pointy end.” She shrugs as if it is nothing, even as the world begins to spin around her again. She forces herself to take another step, realizing that he’s done the same. Step after agonizing step, she propels herself toward him, clutching at the stones for support. 

“You can’t scare me like that again” He whispers as they reach other. Her hands reach up slowly to grasp at his jerkin, tightly pulling herself toward him. She hears the spear clatter on the cobblestones as his arms wrap around her and holds her in the only place she has felt safe for years. 

“I’m going to do my best.” She answers truthfully as they remain there, comforted in the moment. 

When they finally make it back to the courtyard, Jon is still no where to be seen. Sansa however is organizing those still standing into groups. Mostly those who can clear rooms quickly in order to set up places where they all can rest. Those assigned to the night’s watch are catching as much sleep as they can against the walls before the teams switch over from the clean up. 

When Arya comes into view, clutching the arm of the smith who towers over her, Sansa doesn’t say anything. She just nods when Arya makes eye contact with her, begging for an answer that Sansa gives easily. 

_[Sansa will spend her moment of goodbye with Theon soon, but at least her sister should gain some rest before they have to bid farewell.]_  

The pair cross the mangled courtyard as best they can to reach the forge. Davos sees them making their path and crosses to them, crushing Gendry into a hug before the boy can say no. Then he hurries off to find the pair a bucket of water to wash their wounds. Arya forces Gendry to sit on the cot in his little section of the forge, pushing him down against his complaints for she knows that leg is going to give out at any moment. 

Davos comes and hands her the bucket he managed to scrounge up and clean cloths from the medics, telling her that someone would be by to tend them soon, but get clean as they can before that. She thanks him, but he just shakes his head. 

“The only person to thank is you.” He answers before leaving them. 

“What does he mean by that?” She turns towards him, face covered in long shadows. 

“I killed the Night King.” She doesn’t flinch when she says it, doesn’t look away so as to make sure she sees his eyes when she tells him. 

“Well.” It’s the same tone he used before. “If there’s anyone I believed could do it, it would be you.” 

She’s somewhat shocked to be honest, at how calm he appears to be after telling him. 

“What did you expect me to set fireworks off in your honor m’lady?” He snorts. “If you haven’t noticed I’m too bloody tired to do much of anything let alone organize something like that.” She’s too bloody tired to tell him off for calling her that, but it also feels wonderful hearing him say it again. 

She dips the rag into the water and rings it, bringing it still dripping back over to him. She takes one of his daggers and uses it to cut away his pants, revealing the grisly stab wound that he received. 

It’s quiet work, her finger tips gentle as she wipes away the mud and the blood from the area, careful to take note of any area that seems more prone to infection than others. 

“You’re going to need stitches.” 

“You going to do them?” 

“Funny.” There’s a pause, what else is there for them to say? 

“Your forehead is still bleeding.” 

She pauses from his leg and gingerly probes at her head. “I guess you’re right.” She returns to his leg and finds the wound clean. He reaches down and pries the cloth from her hand. He doesn’t speak, just draws her up to face him before taking the clean corner of it and dabbing at her head. 

She lets her eyes slide shut, something she hadn’t been able to truly do since she was in that god forsaken library. She doesn’t voice this, doesn’t tell him anything. Doesn’t have to. His demons and hers could go hand in hand, but for now they cannot speak of them. 

She winces when his hand comes in contact with her neck by accident, and it’s then he pulls back her hair and reveals the finger shaped bruises she has accumulated. He doesn’t say anything to those either, but when she opens her eyes she can see the stoic anger behind his. But she reaches up and grasps his hand where it lays against her shoulder. 

“We’ll heal.” She presses a kiss to the inside of his palm, lifting it with her own hand. They stay there for a moment, before there’s a knock at the door and they move apart so that she can let the person in. 

An hour later and their wounds are stitched, fresh threading leaving the flaps of skin closed. After the medic, or the makeshift medic, leaves, they strip down the rest of their clothing and use the remaining water to scrub at their skin. It’s not a complete bath, that won’t be happening for quite some time yet. But it’s enough to feel somewhat like themselves. He directs her to where there may be something clean stored, an undershirt or a pair of breeches. She finds one of each. He claims the pants for himself, but attempting to get up is out of the question so she slides them on for him. 

She shakes the shirt out before sliding it over her head and her arms into the sleeves. It’s soft against her scarred and bruised skin, comforting in a way she didn’t know was possible. She turns back to face him, the sunlight now clearly coming in through the holes in the ceiling. But it doesn’t matter to her as he presses his back against the wall that seems unharmed and opens his arms for her to slide into. The blanket he draws over them is warm, not as comforting as he cloak had been, but still a shield against the world around them. When she curls up in that narrow bed with him, his forehead pressed to her scalp, she feels a sense of calm wash over her. 

She knows there is a headcount to be made, how many remain to journey south to fight Cersei. But she doesn’t dwell on that now. She dwells on the feeling of his hands against her back, not clutching at her but drawing her ever so slightly towards him. She feels her own arm slide up his side and wrap around his shoulder blades. 

Their breathing evens out as they lay there, not sleeping but not awake either. 

When they awaken, there will be movement into the castle. A warmer bed that has been left somewhat untouched for them both. A bath they can share without any questions, food when they have the stomach for it, battles they must prepare for once more. She’ll have her way with him again, when they’re stronger and her head doesn’t pound so hard. 

She tilts her head back and kisses him softly, just once. To remind herself of who she is, to remind herself that he’s still there. He presses back against her quietly, allowing himself to give over to his precious wolf who has saved him once more. They don’t say anything else, there’s no reason for it and there’s no way either of them can utter another sound as their eyes slide shut into sleep. 

If one of them awakens, shaking and panting for breath, the other will clutch at them and murmur the words they have decided for themselves. 

_I promise, we shall see the sun thousands times more._

_One of us always there to reassure_

_Together, hand in hand we will fight back the night._

_I’m never again letting you out of my sight._

They lost each other once, but never again.

And so leaves the Wolf and her Bull, asleep in their bed.

 

~ _fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first time writing in this fandom so please don't come after me but I adore this ship too much to not write something. It's really just a de-stresser so I don't lose my mind over finals. Hope you enjoyed it :)


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